


To the Core

by Kerkerian_StopYulin



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst, Eventual Johnlock, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Nothing too explicit, Sexual Assault
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-01-10
Updated: 2014-05-18
Packaged: 2017-11-25 00:22:05
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 6
Words: 14,751
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/633114
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kerkerian_StopYulin/pseuds/Kerkerian_StopYulin
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock has been abducted and experienced something he'd never have expected, leaving him with an actual shock for once. And then there's John, willling to do anything to help; well, he's in for a surprise as they try to work it out between them.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: Sadly, I do not own Sherlock Holmes or any recognizable character and am not making any profit by using them.
> 
> Author's notes:
> 
> This story deals with a form of sexual assault (not rape) and is rated accordingly for a reason. Though there will neither be too many details nor any graphic decriptions, please read it only if you are willing to see any such content.
> 
> The story is set sometime before The Reichenbach Falls and is AU to the extent that it contains Johnlock (mildly). If that does count as AU at all considering how Moffat and Gatiss deal with the two...
> 
> I am no native English speaker and therefore apologize for any mistakes.
> 
> And now: enjoy!

o o o

**To the Core  
**

o o o

Part 1

o

For a few seconds, Sherlock did not know where he was. His head hurt, and he was freezing. Had he fallen asleep on the living room carpet again? No, his brain provided a moment later, this was not Baker Street 221B. He was lying in complete darkness on a concrete floor, judging from the cold and the smell, and he was somewhere damp and probably unpleasant. How tedious.

He must have been drugged, he thought, after having taken stock as best as he could in his situation; furthermore, his hands were bound behind his back and his mouth was gagged. He tried to move his jaw, but that proved difficult. He was thirsty and the cloth tasted rather foul, like mildew. Someone had made an effort. So what had happened? He had been at home...

* * *

It had started as something mundane. The February weather was cold and nippy, and Sherlock did not have anything to do. After three days of fretful tedium in his flat, he had gotten a call from DI Lestrade, asking him to assist with a case.

The consulting detective had been delighted, for he had reached a point at which he seriously considered taking his foul mood out on the bison skull this time; John had forbidden him to shoot the wall again, and had found a new hiding place for his gun at that. Though Sherlock was certain he could have found it in no time if he had wanted to, he had not been in the mood to look for it. He was too bored out of his own skull, too annoyed by everything around him which did not manage to hold his attention longer than one minute. And John had gone to visit his sister for a few days, still believing that she had gone off the booze.

The doctor was supposed to be back on that very evening, much too late for Sherlock's taste; therefore he was elated to be called to a crime scene.

The case however had proven to be dull; Sherlock had found the solution after only one good long look, making Anderson bite his hat in anger, so to speak.

Poor Lestrade had therefore had to deal with an upset and angry Sherlock Holmes: "Look, I know you think I called you for nothing, but to me, it _is_ something. You... simply see things that others don't." he had tried to appease the detective.

Sherlock however just shook his head: "You might as well stop looking altogether then. Afternoon." And with that, he strode off, signalling for a cab.

Lestrade looked after him, equally frustrated and disappointed.

His memory later eluded Sherlock on how exactly it had happened, but he was pretty sure that the cab ride had been completely uneventful until the driver had suddenly stepped on the brake, and from that moment on, things became rather fuzzy. Sherlock recalled shouting and his own disbelief as he saw that the cabbie was shot, and then everything seemed to have stopped.

* * *

Sherlock had successfully managed to sit up; the motion had sent his head spinning, but there was a wall to lean against until it stopped. They had taken his coat and his shoes, and he was beginning to feel the cold in earnest. He wanted to get up, to move a little, in order to try and keep himself warm.

His brain was not working properly due to the drugs, and he had no idea who would go to such trouble and kidnap him, in the process killing another person in broad daylight with plenty of possible eye witnesses.

It had been around four p.m. when it had happened. John. John would probably have noticed, but he was away from London. And maybe that was for the better, seeing as he might have been captured as well if he had been there. Or killed, which would have been infinitely worse.

Sherlock was pulled out of these thoughts when he heard the squawk of an opening door, and then someone was shining a torch into his face. He squinted, trying to see something; he was in a small, square room which might be in a basement.

He could not see the person behind the light, but he heard the safety catch of a gun being released: "Get up," a harsh male voice ordered, and when Sherlock did not obey, he was being pulled to his feet rather ungently by a second person, also a man. Or rather, gorilla.

Sherlock stumbled a bit but managed to catch his balance; the guy who was holding him seemed to have hands the size of frying pans and had gripped him rather painfully around the neck and by his arm, twisting it a little.

Sherlock did his best not to utter any sound and simply concentrate on walking. He did not want to admit it, but he wished John _were_ there with him.

Up a flight of stairs they went and along a corridor, which led into a room that was dimly lit and seemed to be mixture between office and lounge, furnished with heavy antiques and dark fabrics.

A man was sitting at a desk when they entered, for a second reminding Sherlock of his brother, but when the man looked up, the comparison faded.

He was younger than Mycroft and looked rather fit. Apart from that, he also wore an expensive suit, but along with it, several gold rings on his fingers and a diamond tie pin. As he rose from his seat, a grin spread on his face, revealing a perfect set of teeth which looked as expensive as the rest of him and seemed to glow in the twilight.

"Well, well, well," he said, "pleasure to meet you at last, Mr Holmes."

His voice had a subtle lilt, but Sherlock could not say where he was from; he was speaking without any accent. Like Irene Adler, he was mostly unreadable, which was unnerving; maybe it could be put down to the drug Sherlock had been administered, though.

On some unseen signal from his boss, the second gorilla suddenly grabbed Sherlock as well so that he was unable to move at all, effectively being held in place by the two of them.

The man came to stand in front of his captive now, eyeing him curiously. On a nod from him, one of his men removed the gag; Sherlock ignored his opposite for the time being, tentatively moving his aching jaw. He swallowed a few times; his throat was parched but he was certainly not going to ask for a drink. He was determined not to say anything at all, come to that.

"That's better," the man said, turning serious all of a sudden. His eyes hardened: "My name is Anthony Davenport. Does that ring a bell?"

It did not. Sherlock was certain that he had never seen him before, and the name did not sound familiar.

Davenport shook his head: "That's rather disappointing, Mr Holmes. I have brought you here to remind you of my brother."

 _Davenport._ Outwardly calm, Sherlock frantically racked his brain, but the name did not evoke any association.

"Then I'll help you. _Jeremy_ Davenport." He all but spat the name in Sherlock's face. "He was arrested because _you_ found out that he was connected to a murder, even after the police had given up."

A faint memory which Sherlock had long deleted popped up in his mind: a case which had left Lestrade baffled –naturally- and would have remained unsolved if it had not been for Sherlock, who had spent weeks mulling it over, looking for the one detail which did not fit in the picture. It had been before John, an eternity ago, which was why Sherlock had not kept the memory.

Davenport saw the realization dawning in the detective's eyes: "That's right, _now_ you know. If it weren't for you, he wouldn't have gone to prison. He wouldn't be _dead._ "

Killed in prison then. Sherlock did not recall Jeremy Davenport's face, but he had been fairly young.

 

"He was stabbed a few months ago," Davenport said accordingly, "and you know what- I really, _really_ wanted to show you how that feels like _ever since_."

Sherlock mustered all his strength to remain impassive, despite the icy fear which shot through his stomach. He was not easily scared, but his situation seemed dire; even if Mycroft had noticed by now that something was amiss, or if the police had examined the cab and had put two and two together (the chance of which being slim), they would not be fast enough. Davenport only needed to take a knife and do as he threatened, and Sherlock was in a fix.

An image of John flitted through Sherlock's mind, and he suddenly felt despair welling up in him. He wanted to see John again, he did not want to die here. He tried to keep the image in front of his inner eye to have something to hold on to. Maybe there was going to be a way to struggle free.

"I am going to film it," his captor said pleasurably, evidently hoping to provoke some kind of reaction, "and send it to _your_ brother, together with your remains. See how he likes it."

"He will probably salute you," Sherlock could not resist saying. His voice was hoarse and low.

Davenport's stance now changed ever so subtly, his eyes never leaving Sherlock. His gaze wandered up and down the detective's face and over his body, and very, very slowly, his grin returned.

"Lo and behold," he said, huskily. "You do have a voice. And _what_ a voice at that."

He stepped closer, his eyes roaming the pale face in front of him: "Incidentally, this mouth of yours is rather delectable," he muttered, suddenly bending forward until his nose nearly touched Sherlock's, sniffing. Sherlock could not pull away, as he was unable to move due to a hand which was gripping his hair, but he was rather disgusted by this odd behaviour and the man's awfully musky cologne.

"Hmm," Davenport closed his eyes as if he was tasting a particularly good sample of wine, "extraordinary."

He opened his eyes again, contemplating his prisoner: "I don't only like what I see, I also like what I hear... and the scent of you. It'd be a waste to just have you wheezing in agony while I twist the knife in your guts. No..."

He looked Sherlock up and down once more, this time with a positively lecherous expression. "I think I shall have some fun with you first."

Sherlock's mouth went dry; there was no mistaking of what the man meant. The icy fear which had settled in his stomach earlier flared up again, even more so as Davenport stepped closer yet, running one hand over Sherlock's chest and down his torso. Sherlock hoped he wasn't trembling, but when his captor's hand reached his pants and the previously rather playful touch became much firmer, he could not subdue a flinch.

Davenport grinned, increasing the pressure: "Not bad," he murmured,"a bit skinny maybe, but altogether... not bad at all." He smiled at Sherlock: "And I like it if my boys are a little shy... usually makes for good sport."

Sherlock would have recoiled from him if he had been able to. Yet even if he could have moved, his body would not have obeyed his command: he was frozen, paralyzed with terror. He wished he could say something, anything, to talk himself out of this, but for the first time he could remember, words were failing him, his mind was completely blank except for fear and the anxiety for John to be there, to end this.

As it was, he could not help being groped, and he felt nausea welling up in him as he felt his own body beginning to respond, which was utterly humiliating on top of it all. He fought hard to control it, especially when Davenport leaned towards him once more until their skin nearly touched: "Don´t worry," he all but purred, his lips grazing Sherlock´s earlobe. "It seems that you'll like it."

With that, he pulled back: "Bring him to my bedroom, you know what to do. Have him ready for me in ten minutes."

The image of John vanished along with everything else as pure, unadulterated panic seemed to consume Sherlock's mind entirely.

Smiling, Davenport turned and resumed his seat at the desk.

The two gorillas shared a grin as they dragged Sherlock's rigid form towards another door, and there really was not anything he could do.

* * *

John Watson tiredly ran his hand over his eyes; he had come home in the early evening, expecting Sherlock to be there, but the flat was empty. He checked his phone: he did not have any messages or missed calls. Maybe Sherlock was at Barts or with Lestrade, he decided, nothing to worry about.

He hoped that Sherlock was not avoiding him after what John had begun to call _The Incident_ ; he had not sorted his own feelings about it yet, which was partly why he had gone to Harry's at all, apart from the fact that she had needed help with decorating her new flat.

He paused; trying not to think of something clearly only made you ponder it even more. _The Incident_ had happened after a night out with Mike Stamford. John had been more than a little sloshed, and when he had finally gotten home in the wee hours, he apparently had not found the way to his own bedroom.

Well, found or _chosen_. He did not remember it anymore, he did not in fact have the foggiest idea how he had ended up in Sherlock's bed in his shirt and boxers, but that was what had happened.

In the morning, they had woken up wrapped around each other, legs entangled, belly to belly, _front to front_. John blushed at the sheer idea. Not that it was unpleasant- not counting how he must have smelled- but he hated the notion that he had so obviously lost control over himself.

And it gave him a lot to think, naturally, because he clearly had acted upon a subconscious desire, hadn´t he? Or had he only been too drunk? Well, at least he had not been naked, as opposed to his flatmate, who only wore nightclothes in winter or when he wasn´t feeling well. John blushed some more. To his credit, Sherlock had been remarkably laid-back about waking up like that- in the literal sense at that.

But they had not talked about it yet, and John hoped that Sherlock had not had second thoughts in the meantime.

Sighing, he went to his room and began to unpack his bag; Sherlock had been right about his sister, she was still drinking, and upon this discovery, the past days had not exactly been pleasant. If he had not promised her to help, he would have left earlier.

And now John was looking forward to having a shower, reading a little, going to bed early and forgetting about the world, not wanting to see wallpaper paste ever again.

 

A few hours later, he awoke with a crick in his neck and found that he had fallen asleep in his armchair. For a moment, he did not know what had woken him or which year it was, but then he recognized the sound of his phone.

The clock showed that it was nearing midnight, and Sherlock still did not seem to be home.

"About time," he murmured, but the caller ID was not Sherlock's; the number was withheld.

A sense of foreboding washed over him so powerfully that he all but gasped his name: "John Watson."

"John," Mycroft Holmes said. "I've sent a car."

"Why? What happened? Is Sherlock-"

"No, he's not all right. I don't want to discuss this on the phone. The car should be there any minute now." With that, he hung up.

Cursing and suddenly anxious, John got to his feet.

**To Be Continued  
**

**  
**


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: Sadly, I do not own Sherlock Holmes or any recognizable character and am not making any profit by using them.
> 
> Thank you all for reading and especially to those who dropped a few words or gave kudos. On with the story!
> 
> Enjoy!

 

**To the Core  
**

 

Part 2

 

 

When the black limousine came to a halt in front of a house in Knightsbridge, John thought they had stopped at just another club of Mycroft's or something similar, for he had been expecting an ambulance at the least, or police cars, and certainly a more dodgy area altogether. Upon closer look however, he spotted several black cars similarly unmarked like the one he'd arrived in.

A black man in a suit came out of the house: "Mr Watson? This way please."

John followed him, his stomach twisting increasingly nervously. He was being led down the hall and into a spacious parlour. Mycroft was there, talking to someone but coming towards John as soon as he spotted him, and astonishingly quick: "John." His expression was tense instead of displaying his usual cool self, and his voice was thick with worry: "He hasn't spoken a word."

 

John followed his gaze over to a large fireplace, in front of which Sherlock sat on a settee; someone who looked like a paramedic without a uniform was talking quietly to him, but Sherlock just stared blankly ahead. It was obvious that something was wrong.

Fear gripped John's heart. "What happened, Mycroft?" he demanded.

The older Holmes looked forlorn as he was staring at his brother, but then he visibly pulled himself together: "He's been kidnapped out of a cab this afternoon. From the information I've got so far, his captor wanted revenge; Sherlock had proven his brother guilty of murder a few years ago, and the man has been killed in prison recently."

He swallowed. "Apparently, Mr Davenport, as is his name, wanted to kill Sherlock in return, but it seems..." he swallowed again, "it seems he took a rather unexpected fancy to him, so he decided to... to... spend some time with him first."

John's knees turned into jelly. "He... what?" he asked feebly. "You mean..."

"He didn't get round to do it, fortunately," Mycroft hurried to continue, "but he would have... abused my brother. My team arrived just in time. A few minutes later..." he briefly closed his eyes.

All kinds of horrible scenarios presented themselves in John's head. He could not but glance at Sherlock, who seemed oblivious to everything around him. He was wearing only his shirt and trousers, and someone had put a blanket around his shoulders; blue, this time, not orange.

"They found him in the bedroom, severely... constrained," Mycroft said shakily.

"My god," John whispered, running his hands over his face. "Is he... all right, apart from that? Was he hurt?"

"I don't think so," Mycroft frowned, "he did throw up though."

"Was he... still dressed?"

"Partially."

John exhaled audibly. "And he didn't say anything?"

"Nothing."

"Okay. All right. I'll go to him. I'll... yeah."

John slowly approached Sherlock and crouched down in front of him. From this close he could see that Sherlock was pale and shaking; he sat with hunched shoulders, hugging what appeared to be his coat to his chest.

"I'm his doctor," John told the paramedic under his breath, "I'll take over now."

"He didn't let me take his blood pressure," the man provided, "but he accepted some water."

"Did you administer any medication?"

"None. His brother told me not to." With a nod, the man got to his feet and went to talk to Mycroft; apparently, he had been informed in advance that a doctor was on his way.

"Sherlock," John said gently, "it's me, John."

He did not get a reaction; he could not tell whether the other had heard him, and he did not need to check his blood pressure to assert that Sherlock was in shock.

Ignoring that, John inched closer; there was an unfamiliar smell lingering faintly on Sherlock, a musky, unpleasant scent.

"Sherlock?" he repeated, tentatively putting his hands over the detective's. His skin was clammy, but at least he allowed John to touch him. "It's me."

Sherlock exhaled with a shudder, and his eyes finally seemed to come to life when he turned his gaze on the doctor.

John forced himself to smile for his friend.

"I can't stop shaking," Sherlock said without preamble, his voice was rough and bare of its usual strength.

"That's okay," John replied, "it will stop eventually. Are you cold?"

"Yes."

"Would you like to put on your coat?"

"M-my coat?"

"It's right here," John indicated it with a nod, gently squeezing Sherlock's hands.

Sherlock looked down on it as if he was seeing it for the first time. "Oh..."

"Would you like to put it on?" John asked again.

"Yes... But I'm not sure I can stand yet."

"That's okay, you don't have to. Take your time."

Sherlock fumbled with the coat until John managed to get hold of the right end and helped him to put his arms through the sleeves after shedding the blanket: "There," he said quietly, "should warm you up in no time. Do you want the collar up?"

Sherlock did not seem to have heard him; unexpectedly, he leaned forward ever so slighty and curled his fingers into John's parka, keeping him close; he did not look at him, and he did not say a word, but it unnecessary anyway. John understood. Silently, he inched forward as well until Sherlock's forehead touched his chest, putting his arms around the other's shoulders and gently pulling him close, holding on firmly with Sherlock's head tucked under his chin.

They remained like this until Sherlock was not shaking as badly anymore, unaware of how Mycroft was watching them, guarded relief settling on his features.

"Can we go home now?" Sherlock asked when they finally let go, testimony of his exhaustion.

"Yes, yes of course. Do you think you can get up yet?"

"Yes, it's better..." Sherlock did not seem to know how to sort his limbs however, so John helped him to his feet. The detective leaned on him for support, something he would not do if it were not necessary. John realized that Sherlock did not have his shoes, but he decided that it did not matter as long as he did not complain; they were going to be home in no time.

Mycroft exchanged one glance with John and nodded, but they did not stop to talk. Sherlock avoided to look at anyone; he only wanted to escape this place, and John was glad to leave.

In the car, Sherlock leaned his forehead against the window frame and looked out into London at night, but John was sure that he did not actually register much. At one point, his exhaustion seemed to have taken over, and his eyes closed as he fell asleep.

The minute the car stopped in front of their flat however, Sherlock was startled into awareness:"John!"

"I'm here," John reached over and briefly touched Sherlock´s arm, "and we're home."

Both of them were relieved once they had managed the stairs, Sherlock leaning on John again. "I want to take a shower," he muttered.

"Sure," John steered him to the bathroom, where Sherlock collapsed on the clothes chair.

"Do you think you're up to it?" John asked, frowning slightly.

Sherlock ran a hand over his face: "No, but I need to wash." A hint of his usual stubbornness was audible in his tired voice.

"A bath maybe?" John suggested.

"Shower," Sherlock insisted. "I'll manage."

"Fine. I'll be in the kitchen if you need me." John put a large towel on the edge of the bathtub within easy reach, then, with one last concerned look at his friend, he left the room.

Sherlock slowly shed his coat, his shirt and the rest of his clothes. He did not know where his jacket had gotten to, or his scarf, or his shoes for that matter, but he did not particularly care. He only wanted to get rid off the awful man's smell and then sleep and forget. And maybe a cigarette, or two.

He did not know why he felt so violated, since nothing really had happened, thank goodness. Mycroft had after all been fast enough. And yet Sherlock felt tainted, dirty. He shivered at the thought of what _would_ have happened; he could still feel the man's hands on him, his breath on his skin, the manacles around his wrists and ankles, and for a moment, his vision blackened. He staggered and his legs threatened to give out under him once more.

With an effort, he kept himself upright and stepped into the shower cubicle. The hot water was a blessing, and he used a generous amount of soap to wash away any lingering scent he did not want on his skin, supporting himself against the wall with one hand.

He needed to pause a few times and kneel down in order to chase away the dizziness which was coming in waves now. It was increasingly difficult to get back up, and at one point, he felt he just could not move anymore. He reached up to turn off the spray, which took all of his remaining energy. Afterwards, he just sat there for a while, waiting for some of his strength to return so he could get out of the shower; the warmth of the shower slowly seeped away as the water dripped off him, and he began to shiver again.

Unsteadily, he began to scramble to his feet, but did not succeed entirely, awkwardly manoevering his body out of the slippery tub until he was on the bathroom floor on all fours. He pulled the towel towards him and wrapped it around his trembling frame, which seemed to take ages, then he lay down on the bathmat for a moment.

At one point, he felt a hand on his shoulder and flinched, but the touch was gentle, and it was John's kind voice he heard: ""Oh no, Sherlock," he murmured, "You can't sleep here..."

Ten minutes later, Sherlock was relatively dry and dressed in fresh underwear and nightclothes and his favourite housecoat. John had wrapped a smaller towel around his wet hair and helped him to his room, where Sherlock sank onto the bed and huddled into the covers which John spread about him, turning onto his side.

John stared at Sherlock's back for a while, lost for words and feeling his own exhaustion bearing down on him. He was relieved that Sherlock was finally lying down, but what was going to happen on the following day? He closed his tired, burning eyes for a moment; no matter how much he was craving his own bed, he could not leave Sherlock alone.

He went and fetched a chair from the kitchen, which he placed between the bed and the door, and sat down on it. If Sherlock noticed, he did not let it on.

For the second time in less than twelve hours, John awoke with a crick in his neck. Groaning, he stretched his limbs, rubbing his neck; falling asleep on that chair had not exactly been a good idea.

Early morning light was pouring in through the drawn curtains, and Sherlock seemed fast asleep. Slowly, John got to his feet and went to his own bedroom. When he emerged from it again around midday, everything was quiet in the flat. He could hear Mrs Hudson's TV from downstairs and the sound of traffic outside, but that was all.

He peeked into Sherlock's room; a few dark-brown curls were visible, but he did not reply when John whispered his name.

Still tired, John went into the kitchen and made some scrambled eggs on toast. He had slept deep and dreamlessly and hoped that it was the same with Sherlock. John had refrained from offering him a sedative, considering that he already had an unknown drug in his blood; apart from that, Sherlock had seemed knackered enough to be able to sleep.

 

John looked in on Sherlock regularly; he was mostly hidden under the covers, but it seemed that he was severely out of it. Which was true; the detective was not used to sleeping that long, but his physical and emotional exhaustion kept Sherlock under until the late afternoon.

Outside it was getting dark again when Sherlock woke up in terror, shaking and drenched in cold sweat, for a moment confused as to what was real. He struggled to get away and got caught up in the blankets, tumbling off the edge of the bed. Only when he landed on the hard wooden floor did Sherlock realize he was awake.

He had dreamed of being shackled again, and there had been a faceless menace in the room, feeding on Sherlock's unability to move, threatening to do unspeakable things to him. He could still feel the cold metal restraints on his skin, and the horror about his situation was as present as it had been back in that house in Knightsbridge. He had never felt so helpless.

A sound escaped him, a strangled, pitiful whimper which did not sound anything like himself, and he quickly bit on his palm to subdue any more of those, but he could not subpress the tears which were rolling down his cheeks now. He felt ashamed and sullied, and then he felt ashamed that he was feeling violated at all, that he was feeling so sullied and ashamed, in fact, that he would have to shower again even though he knew that it was not going to help.

John found him a few seconds later. He thought he had heard something, but nothing could have prepared him for the sight which greeted him in Sherlock's room: his friend was crouching on the floor, hunched in on himself as far as possible, and was weeping. His slender shoulders were shaking, and he was obviously trying not to make a sound, for he was biting into his hand.

John's stomach dropped; he should have known. He should not have left him alone for even a second. Berating himself, he quickly went to get to his friend's side. He knew that Sherlock would not be delighted for John to witness this, but he could not just leave him to his own devices like that. Without a word, John crouched down next to him and put his arms around Sherlock.

His whole body was shaking with silent sobs; he was staring blindly ahead again, apparently unable to stop the tears which were welling up in his eyes without a moment's pause. He bore no resemblance to the Sherlock the world around them knew, and it broke John's heart.

He gently reinforced his embrace and began to pull Sherlock close; at first, he met resistance, but then the detective complied, leaning into John's touch until he was hidden in his arms, and his so far silent weeping turned into desperate, choked, genuine crying.

John wept as well as he listened to the sounds Sherlock made, reminding him of a wounded animal; his body shook with Sherlock's while he held him all the way through the storm, rocking him ever so slightly. He felt shaken and helpless himself when the bout finally seemed to cease; gradually, Sherlock calmed down until he was very still, apart from an occasional sniffle, shuddering through him like an aftershock.

John's shirt was damp and his eyes were burning, and he became aware of the cold floor they were sitting on, but neither of it mattered. He pressed his cheek into Sherlock's hair, murmuring reassurances into the dark curls which neither of them remembered afterwards; it did not matter either, as long as his voice was sufficient to calm his friend down.

 

Sherlock felt like he was floating; he could not remember of ever losing control like that, not since he had been very young anyway.

If Mycroft had been there, he could have told Sherlock that in fact there had been a few occasions in Sherlock's later life which had resembled the scene, but which he, contrary to his older brother, had thoroughly deleted. Mycroft had always been there when Sherlock had gone through drug rehab, and it had not exactly been easy on any of them. There had not been any bodily contact though, not like this.

Sherlock was drawing immense comfort from John's embrace, even though he was appalled by his breaking down like this. He wanted to explain it to John, to apologize, but he could not find his voice. John's hand was stroking his back, and Sherlock could feel the other's breath in his hair. He was beginning to feel cold, but he did not want to get up, did not want to have to let go of this safe cocoon, did not want to face John.

He closed his eyes; maybe, if he was really lucky, it was going to turn out to have been nothing but an exceptionally bad dream.

**To Be Continued  
**

**  
**

Thank you for reading.

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Author´s notes: I don´t know if any of you has ever witnessed a breakdown such as the one described above, but trust me, it´s heartbreaking. I did have difficulties writing about Sherlock crying like that, for he usually is in control of his emotions and one cannot easily imagine him like that, but then I saw a short film with Benedict Cumberbatch on youtube in which he cries (which is similarly heart-wrenching) and voilà.
> 
> Please leave some feedback...


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: Sadly, I do not own Sherlock Holmes or any recognizable character and am not making any profit by using them.
> 
> Thank you all for reading and especially to those who gave feedback! It´s most appreciated!
> 
> Enjoy!

 

**To the Core  
**

 

Part 3

 

It was long dark when John finally moved; his legs were close to falling asleep, and his back felt positively frozen. He was still ever so slightly rocking Sherlock, whose breathing had evened out; his cheek was resting against the hollow of John's neck, and the doctor thought he might have fallen asleep, judging from the complete stillness of him. No, he corrected himself, it was unlikely that Sherlock would just doze off after having an emotional breakdown.

He would probably be catalogueing whichever emotions were presenting themselves, and try to delete them later on. If John had learned one thing about Sherlock during their time together, it was that Sherlock could not tolerate any limitations of his mind and would do anything to prevent a recurrence.

Sherlock however was doing no such thing. He would have, but he was too tired, and for once, his mind was blank. He could not think and did not _want_ to think, and it was a relief that John was there, providing shelter without trying to intrude. He was going to of course, seeing that he would want to make sure that Sherlock was all right, which would inevitably include questions, but he seemed to sense that his friend was in no shape to talk right now. He had closed his eyes at one point, concentrating on John to distract himself, and the blessed combination of warmth and scent and heartbeat had lulled him into a state of calmness. He still felt vaguely ashamed that he had broken down like that, but it was unimportant now.

He allowed himself to drift a little more.

At one point John murmured something about it getting cold. He pulled Sherlock up with him, manoeuvring them both onto the bed. He was very careful, but it felt like breaking a spell nevertheless.

Sherlock avoided to look at him, and he did not have to. John knew how it felt like to have arrived at rock bottom, and he wanted his friend to understand that it was okay, that he did neither have to apologize nor feel ashamed of his breakdown. Of course he would, no matter what John said, because it was a natural consequence; after losing control, people tended to forget how bad it felt initially, and were inclined to think they had overreacted.

"I'm going to make tea," John said quietly, and got up. Sherlock did not move, did not show whether he had heard his friend at all. John however knew better than to push him, so he just went into the kitchen and put the kettle on.

When he returned to Sherlock's room ten minutes later, balancing a tray, the detective was still sitting in the same spot, shoulders hunched. John carefully put the tray down and turned the lamp on the nightstand on. He took one mug and offered it to his friend, who slowly raised his hands and wrapped his long fingers around it, then John sat down next to him again.

The warmth of the mug was a blessing, but Sherlock did not want to drink the tea. He did not want to feel like someone who had to be coddled, who could not cope on his own.

He had been reluctant to let go of John when they got up, but now, out of hiding, so to speak, he slowly felt mortification wash over him as he realized what had happened. He had behaved like a five-year-old. He had had a bad dream, so what? It was not like that had not occured before, so why did it affect him so much? Why did it cause him to act like that, undignified, helpless, _pathetic_?

It was no good to berate himself however; for reasons he could not quite fathom, he still felt shaken, and he wished John would put his arms around him again, to chase away the darkness and the dread. The rational part of Sherlock's mind huffed at this indignantly, but the other part, the one which was dreadfully susceptible to emotions and was increasingly difficult to subdue, craved the soothing touch which had been so immensely reassuring right now.

He suspected that this was stemming back from the days when he had been very young, from a time in which it had been perfectly all right to seek shelter in someone else's arms when things went awry. Only he was not a child anymore, and he did not want to be depending on anyone. He would have to manage alone, as he always had. The thought however was making him shudder, a subconsicious reaction of his body, and he felt betrayed. He was vaguely aware that solitude was no longer as desirable as it once had been, a completely unexpected and new notion.

God forbid that he suddenly sounded like Mycroft, but it was not advisable to get too emotionally attached to someone, after all. Solitude had mostly protected him so far, why did he suddenly develop these sentiments?

 _And yet here you are_ , a voice in his head told him scornfully, _a picture of misery, and whose fault is that? The man who induced all this was in no way attached to you._

\- _And it wouldn not matter at all if I had my emotions under control_ , he contered, angrily. _If it wouldn't upset me like it does. If I didn´t feel so damn vulnerable now._

He shuddered again; he could not help it, just as he could not help feeling dirty. He could still smell Davenport's aftershave, even though that was hardly possible. God; he seemed to be going mad.

 

John watched Sherlock from the side and wondered what was going on his head. He was grimacing and had not touched his tea yet; he looked as though he would hug himself if he were not holding a mug, and he was trembling slightly again.

John had never seen Sherlock so vulnerable, defeated even. He usually was not squirmish and tended to make light of any injuries he sustained, or even hide them. Only by coincidence did John find out about the garotting incident in Soo Lin's apartment, or how badly bruised Sherlock's back was after he had fallen into the arena of the Chinese circus; he had seemed dazed for a moment, but had not expressed any discomfort afterwards, too preoccupied with the case to let himself be distracted by pain.

Sometimes John saw Sherlock sporting a new bruise, cut or abrasion and had no idea where it might have come from, and when he asked, Sherlock would wave it off, dismissing it as trifle.

But this, this seemed beyond his ability to handle. He looked devastated and forlorn as he sat there.

John put his own mug aside and laid a hand on Sherlock's arm: "I'm here if you want to talk," he said, unsure whether it was the right approach. "But I won't make you."

Sherlock stared at John's hand, then he nodded: "I know. I don't want to. Leave. Please." He turned away, shrugging the hand off and putting the mug on the nightstand, then he curled up on the bed.

"Sherlock," John prompted softly, but he got no reply. Hesitating at first, John slowly got up; he pulled the blanket up around Sherlock, then he left the room.

Sherlock felt like weeping again; sending John away had been difficult, but necessary, even though it left a John-shaped hole in the air.

He stayed like that, curled up under the blankets, and stared into the semi-darkness of his room, trying not to think.

* * *

 

John paced around the living room. Usually, it was Sherlock who was pacing and John who was annoyed by it, but the doctor did not feel like sitting down now. He was wondering what to do; this was different from Danger Nights, where at least he knew the parameters a little better.

He usually thought he had gotten to know Sherlock quite well, but sometimes he seemed like a complete stranger.

Yet if there was one fact John was a hundred percent sure about , it was that Sherlock was not as coldhearted as he sometimes appeared. He cared more about certain things and persons than he would ever admit, and he was as susceptible to emotions as everyone else, he just dealt with them differently.

 

Sherlock stayed in his room for the rest of the night; he eventually drank the by then cold tea, but he neither ate nor went back to sleep. He lay awake, listening to the blood rushing in his ears, the sounds from outside, the occasional creaking of the old house.

He could not tell John what had happened, because John was going to realize why it had shaken Sherlock so much. He did not want John to consider him a victim, because he was not one. It was his own fault entirely, there was no one else to blame; other people did not have issues with their sexuality, but Sherlock did. He had never had a relationship, had always felt alienated from his own body. He had refrained from being touched by others, even as a child. His grandmother, his mother and occasionally Mycroft had been the exception, which was also the reason why he never had a nanny.

John was the only one whose touch did not feel like an invasion of his personal space. In fact, Sherlock liked John's touch. John who gently shook him awake when he had fallen asleep in front of his microscope. John who supported him after he had sprained his ankle. John who cleaned his wounds if he had sustained minor injuries. John who slapped at him playfully when they were bantering with each other. John who had just calmed him down. His touch was never inappropriate, never something to be repelled by. His touch was something Sherlock wanted.

He had wanted it ever since he had woken up one night because a very drunk doctor had sat down heavily on his bed, announcing that he did not think he would ever want to live without Sherlock again, and that Sherlock was lovely, and that he was going to sleep in Sherlock's bed that night because of all that. Then he had stumbled into the bathroom.

Surprised, amused and slightly abashed, Sherlock had waited for him to return; when he did, he only wore a t-shirt and boxers, and climbed into the bed and under the covers as if he did so every night. He had sighed happily and had pressed himself against Sherlock; a minute later, he was fast asleep.

The detective had lain rigidly at first; not that it was unpleasant, but he did not know what to do in such a situation. He had then taken stock: the way John smelled (familiar, like himself and toothpaste, despite the underlying aroma of alcohol evaporating from his pores), the way John felt (soft, solid, warm, _good_ ), the way it felt to have someone snuggling up against him (not as oppressive as he would have anticipated), the way it felt to lie in the darkness and hearing the other's breathing (calming, strangely).

All in all, Sherlock found that he was okay with John sleeping in his bed, so he had closed his eyes. He had not been able to fall asleep for a long time, however, it was much too interesting to listen to John's occasional snores and snuffles, to count his heartbeart, to catalogue the way it felt when John moved in his sleep, when Sherlock could feel his breath ghosting over his shirt, his skin.

In the morning, John had woken up first, and had roused Sherlock with his appalled exclamations, spluttering indignantly how sorry he was and that he really, really had not meant to molest his flatmate. It took Sherlock a moment to register that their legs were twined together, and that John's head had been resting against Sherlock's neck.

His own arms were wrapped around John, in fact, and he could feel John's belly against his own as it expanded with every breath. Which felt unfamiliar and... nice. Sherlock muttered "It's fine, John," a few times while taking in all the details, but his friend was too ashamed to listen, and quickly distangled himself from the other man, then left the room.

They had not talked about it afterwards, since there simply had not been any time and then John had gone to Harry's, but Sherlock kept thinking about it, because it had been... pleasant. He had woken up once in the night, for a moment confused, but then he had remembered, and John's comfortable weight against his own body had been strangely reassuring.

So yes, if he was honest with himself, he wanted John. Or, to be more precise: he had wanted John to do that again, come to his bed at night and share his warmth, the feeling of his body against Sherlock's. He cringed; it should have been his choice, his decision to allow someone else to touch him. His and John's, maybe, but no one else's.

But now he could not shake off the memories of Anthony Davenport groping him, and it seemed that he was never going to experience any intimacy of that kind again, because the thought alone made him smell that ugly cologne again, made him feel nauseous and choked. By trying to... violate him, Davenport had taken something which he had had no right to.

He sat up, pressing the heels of his hands against his burning eyes: it hardly made any sense, he thought. John had just touched him, and it had been what Sherlock had needed.

It had felt good and right, so why had he sent John away afterwards? Why not just take the one touch he had been craving for some time now?

Sherlock felt a cold shudder when he realized why: the cause had been wrong. Sherlock did not want John to touch him out of pity. But that was what it would be from now on, if ever anything happened, would it not? Pity.

He lay back down, curling up into himself: it seemed as though the one chance of closeness to another human being had been spoiled for him, leaving him lonely and beyond repair.

* * *

 

John lay awake that night. Maybe he should not have gone in, he thought, should have left Sherlock to his misery, give him the impression that he had not witnessed anything at all. Yet not only the doctor in him protested at this notion; he had wanted to be close to Sherlock, there was no point in denying it.

The whole matter had come as a bit of a surprise, but John was not one to look a gift horse in the mouth. He had exclusively dated women during the time he had served his country, and admittedly, ever since. Unsuccessfully so, one might add. John did not want to delve into possible reasons why it had never worked out, there being too many factors to include, and one of them was called Sherlock; he had however dated both women and men while he had been at the uni. It seemed ages ago and back then, a good shag had been more important than finding a soulmate.

John shook his head: what an idiot he had been. Had they all been like that, once? And now, an eternity later, John seemed stuck. He unsure whether soulmates did exist at all, but if they did, Sherlock seemed surprisingly close to filling that vacancy.

 _Are you being ridiculous?_ John asked himself. Sherlock had told him in unmistakable terms that he did not want a relationship, probably never had one. And yet John was drawn to him like a magnet. No matter how often he frowned at Sherlock's odd behaviour, no matter how often the detective insulted him, John nearly always understood him, and he was not resentful. More frequent than that however were the times that Sherlock did something absolutely brilliant, or made John laugh, or made John feel needed and important, not just a waste of space.

They had become friends, and their friendship, though frowned upon by most of their mutual acquaintances, was solid and intense. Could a friend be a soulmate? Could a soulmate exist without an intimate relationship? John blushed, trying not to think of _The Incident_. He was not even sure what to call what he felt for Sherlock, but the idea of going back to a life without him being a constant in it was inconceivable.

And now that Sherlock had reached such a low point and needed him, John had managed to have his friend turning him away, just because he had acted on an impulse. He sighed miserably. He should have known better.

He was still pondering this when he finally fell asleep.

 

**To Be Continued  
**

**  
**

Thank you for reading.

 

 

 


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: Sadly, I do not own Sherlock Holmes or any recognizable character and am not making any profit by using them.
> 
> Thank you all for reading and especially to those who gave feedback! It´s most appreciated!
> 
> Enjoy!

 

**To the Core  
**

 

Part 4

 

Mycroft Holmes was still awake. He was sitting in his favourite chair in front of the large fireplace, a long empty tumbler in his hand, and he was also pondering his brother. Throughout their life, Mycroft had seen Sherlock in various states of being unwell, the worst of which had so far been drug-related.

During those days, Mycroft had lived in constant dread, had flinched every time the phone rang because he was afraid Sherlock might have overdosed. It had been equally worse when Sherlock had rung him in the middle of the night, either too high to speak properly but insulting him nevertheless, or sometimes sobbing, desperate and still beyond reach.

Yet Mycroft found that this latest incident was even more difficult for him to stomach, and he was secretly glad that his team had arrived at Davenport's house before him, that he had not seen Sherlock in that bedroom, wrists and ankles restrained and that ghastly man all over him. Mycroft briefly closed his eyes; thank God they had not completely stripped him, had not physically hurt him. It was bad enough as it was.

Sherlock had never tolerated physical contact well, and Mycroft was already surprised by the amount of trust he seemed to have in Dr. Watson, who was the only person Sherlock allowed into his personal space; well, apart from Mrs Hudson maybe. But there was a difference to Watson, certainly; Sherlock seemed not only to tolerate his presence and their closeness, but to... enjoy it, if that term was feasible at all. Mycroft had rarely witnessed Sherlock being so at ease with anyone else, and he wondered whether there was more to it than he was aware of. Well, if there was, the better; Sherlock was certainly going to need help, and he was very likely going to refuse it from anyone but his friend.

Mycroft almost smiled; Sherlock had never had real friends, it was strangely endearing that he had managed to obtain one, and one so loyal at that. Mycroft finally put his tumbler down; it did not actually matter how far their relationship went, as long as Sherlock was not alone.

* * *

John was at his wit's end. Ever since his breakdown four days ago, Sherlock had not once left his room. He was hiding and had locked himself in; John had spent a considerable amount of time knocking at the door, reasoning, asking, pleading, threatening, swearing, but nothing had helped.

He was getting angry at one point, but his worry predominated; he even called in sick at the surgery, because he did not want to risk leaving the house. Mrs Hudson, who at one point had noticed that something was odd, had kindly done the shopping for them. John felt like he was keeping vigil; he even slept on the sofa in the living room so he would hear any commotion from Sherlock's room.

On the fourth day, John resorted to barricade the door which connected the bathroom and Sherlock's room, so that it would not open from the outside anymore. That way, Sherlock was going to have to leave his room eventually, John thought, and waited.

It was late that evening when the room to Sherlock's door opened. He obviously had not expected John to sit in the hallway, and paused for the shortest of moments. He looked dishevelled and pale; he obviously had not shaved, and there were dark smudges underneath his eyes, telling of sleepless nights. He avoided John's gaze and quickly disappeared in the bathroom.

John could hear water running, then it sounded as though Sherlock was trying to unbolt the other door, but to no avail. For a long time it was quiet; John took the opportunity to remove the key from Sherlock's door.

The detective eventually re-emerged, scowling, but still not saying anything, which was rather unnerving. John had expected a biting remark at the very least. As it was, Sherlock simply turned towards his room.

John followed him: "Talk to me, please," he said, quietly. "Sherlock."

Sherlock stopped in his tracks: "I can't," he said, his voice low and hollow.

John snorted: "Bollocks."

Sherlock huffed: "You said you weren't making me."

"Fine, then I'm hereby revoking that statement," John said, crossing his arms. "For God's sake, for how much longer do you want to stay in your room, Sherlock?"

Sherlock did not reply. He just stood rigidly, shoulders and head drooping in an uncharacteristical manner.

Shaking his head, John took one step towards his friend: "It's not going to get better if you keep doing this."

"I'm fine." Sherlock said stubbornly, but it did not sound convincing at all, only tired and weary.

"Oh, I see. You're fine. Great, yes. So it's probably down to my being an idiot that I'm worrying about you and had to manipulate the bathroom door in order to talk to you? And your being fine means that you hole up in your room, don't talk to me, don't eat, probably don't sleep either and in general simply wallow in your misery while the world around you can sod off?"

He snorted again, unable to contain his frustration any longer: "Let me tell you this then: _you_ are the idiot if you think that you'll get away with this!"

Sherlock still did not turn around. When he finally spoke, his voice seemed bare of any energy: "What do you expect me to do, John?"

John glared at his back: "First of all: look at me. Tell me how you really feel. Talk to me. Let me... let me help you."

"I don't want to talk, and I don't want your pity."

John was not sure for how much longer he would be able to hold on to his temper:"Seriously, Sherlock, I _am_ going to punch you."

Only now did Sherlock slowly turn around: "Fine. Punch me."

John was lost for words. This was not Sherlock. The man who usually was so overconfident and vibrant seemed to have disappeared. He looked... devastated, and there was no fight left in him. His cheekbones were more prominent than usual, and John could see his collarbones through the t-shirt he wore.

"I am going to punch you," John said slowly, "if you don't help me."

"Help you with what?"

"Getting the old Sherlock back."

Now it was Sherlock who snorted, but he avoided John's gaze. The doctor was having none of it: "First of all, you need to eat something. And come out of your room, at least for a while."

John was a firm wall of resoluteness. Sherlock looked at him and felt his heart ache, because there, just two steps away from him, was everything he could not have. He had spent the past four days trying to reason with himself, but he had felt confused and unable to think properly.

And now John, whom he had tried to shut out in order to clear his head, but who had been the main thing _in_ said head, was standing right in front of him, and he was concerned about nothing but Sherlock.

His knees threatened to give out all of a sudden, and he quickly extended one hand to support himself on the wall, but too late; a moment later, he found himself sitting on the floor, befuddled.

John knelt down next to him, putting one hand on Sherlock's arm: "That's what happens when you don't look after yourself," he said, sounding upset. Sherlock closed his eyes, willing the dizziness to go away and John's hand to stay there. He could not help it, he was shaking, and not just because he felt cold.

John's voice was much gentler when he spoke next: "Come on."

He got up and held out a hand; Sherlock stared at it for a moment but knew that surrender was inevitable. Shutting John out had not been a good idea to begin with, and now the notion of returning to his room and being alone again was rather hard to bear. So he took the offered hand and allowed John to help him to his feet. He was still a little unsteady, but John never let go until they had reached the sofa in the living room, onto which they both sank.

* * *

"There's no need to be ashamed," John said, looking at Sherlock from the side, deciding to meet the topic head-on. Maybe dinner could wait a little longer.

Sherlock still seemed reluctant to talk about it but was staring at his hands. He had pulled up his knees and was hunching in on himself, and John was afraid he might withdraw again.

"You don't know what you're saying," the detective now murmured.

Yep, dinner definitely would have to wait. John crossed his arms: "And that's where you're wrong," he said, after some deliberation, "since I actually do." Bracing himself, he continued: "I know how it feels not to be in control of the situation anymore."

"Because you were shot."

It was not a question, rather a statement.

"No, because my boyfriend turned out to be a sadistic bastard."

After a moment of comprehension, Sherlock raised his head to meet John´s gaze: "Your _boyfriend_."

John exhaled a little shakily; it still was difficult to talk about it, even after nearly two decades. "Yes. We got together at uni, and for a while everything was fine. We got along well, we had a few mutual friends, the sex was fantastic."

Sherlock sat rigidly, silently listening to this new and seemingly unexpected bit of information.

"It all changed when the pressure on us rose with each trimester," John continued, "every time there were exams coming up, he was unrecognizable all of a sudden. He turned moody and choleric and, occasionally, heavy-handed..." he paused to take another deep breath, "he really seemed to enjoy intimidating me, which was the worst about it. And then one night, he went too far. He... didn't have my consent to do what he did. I wanted out and he wanted to show me who's boss. He wasn't even drunk and he knew what he was doing; there's nothing for excuse it." He fell silent, for his voice was trembling too much and he had said what was necessary to make Sherlock understand.

"I'm..." Sherlock seemed baffled, "I'm sorry, John."

"Not your fault," John said, after clearing his throat. "But there you go. It happens. And it wasn't my fault either."

"What was his name?" Sherlock wanted to know.

"It doesn't matter."

Wrong, Sherlock thought. It did matter, because he could not bear thinking of John being submitted to such a personal and offending act of violence, and the idea had his stomach churning with anger. It was clear, however, that John was not going to share the name of the man who had abused him. Well. There would be other ways of finding out. For now it unimportant.

Sherlock silently shifted on the sofa until his shoulder was touching John's. "What happened next?"

"I left him," John said, in a low voice. He sounded tired all of a sudden. "I moved into a shared flat and bought a bottle of pepper spray. He called me a few times, alternately begging and threatening me, but a month later he dropped out because he could not cope with the pressure anymore, and I never saw him again."

Sherlock peered at him as things fell into place: "And consequently, you joined the army."

"Yes. Learned how to defend myself, among other things."

"Does Mike Stamford know?"

John was taken aback by the question, but answered nevertheless: "Yes, he does."

"Thought so." A hint of Sherlock's usual smugness was evident in his voice.

" _How_?"

"He's always fidgeting a little when you two are talking about old times."

"Nothing ever escapes you, does it?"

Sherlock tiredly rubbed his forehead with his fingertips: "No, it doesn't," he agreed, softly.

He was aware that John was waiting for him to say something, but he did not know how to broach the subject. Maybe his friend was expecting this to be easier on him now that John had shared his own experience with Sherlock, but it was not.

He needed to explain things to John, everything which he had been fruitlessly poring over during the past four days and nights, and he really did not have any idea how to do that.

**To Be Continued  
**

Thank you for reading.

 

 

 

 


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: Sadly, I do not own Sherlock Holmes or any recognizable character and am not making any profit by using them.
> 
> Thank you all for reading and especially to those who gave feedback! It´s most appreciated!
> 
> Enjoy!

 

**To the Core  
**

 

Part 5

 

"Nothing happened to me," Sherlock finally settled on saying. "I... he only threatened to do to me what has actually been done to you. I don't know why it affects me so much. It's not like he -" he broke off, and suddenly the full extent of what John had told him hit Sherlock, because in his mind, he had already been there; when Davenport's men had wrestled him onto the bed, securing his limbs with manacles, grinning, making lecherous comments and also groping him, he had seen it all in his inner vision, unable to stop it.

Fortunately Mycroft's team had been able to stop it in time, but for John, there had not been any help.

"You didn't deserve that," Sherlock breathed, "you least of all people, John."

John straightened up a little: " _No one_ deserves being raped," he clarified, a chill running down his spine at the word.

Sherlock moved even closer to John, who unsure as to how to react. Sherlock solved the issue by tentatively slipping his hand into John's, who was relieved that they had come this far.

"Nevertheless, it was still terrible for you," he said, returning to the initial subject.

Sherlock drew his knees up higher, cradling his free arm between his legs and his torso.

John reached out and pulled a blanket over them; it was the same one he had been using when he had slept on the sofa; it had still been lying on the armrest. Sherlock was grateful for the warmth and huddled into it, letting John's scent engulf him.

They sat silently for a long time, pondering.

"He lay down on top of me," Sherlock said abruptly and barely audible, sounding strangely absent. "He unbuttoned my shirt and my trousers-"

He paused for a moment. "He tried to kiss me... and when I turned my head away, he... bit me instead, saying we'd come back to the kissing later."

He felt queasy at the memory. Davenport's weight, his breath on Sherlock's face, the blatant enforcement of the man's lust- it was too much. Sherlock could not subpress a shudder.

John turned towards him, eyeing him not with pity, but with sympathy. "He _bit_ you?"

Sherlock met his gaze and held it for a moment, then he reached up and pulled his shirt aside. There was an unmistakable mark there at the bend of his neck, already beginning to fade a little.

Fresh anger welled up in John: "Where else?" he demanded.

Sherlock looked uncomfortable, but he pulled his shirt even further down to reveal two more marks, one on his collarbone, the other a little further down on his chest.

"Is that all?" John asked, barely able to keep calm any longer. Sherlock nodded, pulling his shirt up again. John had seen the bruises on his arms and also the abrasions of the manacles where Sherlock had pulled at them, but he had not noticed the bitemarks when he had helped Sherlock into the bed after his shower the other night.

"I'm sorry," he murmured.

Sherlock immediately bristled: "Don't."

John sat back: "Why are _you_ allowed to say sorry, but I am not?"

"Because yours is worse."

"Sherlock-"

"No, John. I mean it. I am... overreacting."

" _What_?" John's voice sounded shrill even in his own ears.

"I can't allow this to be blown so ridiculously out of proportion," Sherlock said. "Nothing happened, as I said."

"What you told me didn't sound like _nothing_ ," John retorted.

"I can't let it affect me so much," Sherlock insisted, sounding desperate. "It's not right, I can't be afraid of being touched for the rest of my life."

Silence fell between them once more, this time with a heavy thud.

When John spoke next, his voice was trembling. "You," he said, struggling for the right words, "have _every_ right to be affected by it, Sherlock-"

"Please," Sherlock interrupted, "please stop. I can't- if you don't stop, I won't be able to process it."

John shook his head in disbelief: "You can't be serious."

Sherlock avoided his gaze again: "I am serious. I need to be able to forget this, and move on. I can't _think_ if I don't."

"You hid in your room for four days, and you clearly aren't coping well. Forgetting the whole affair in order to look ahead won't work, Sherlock."

"I can _make_ it work," he snapped.

"No," John smiled sadly, "no, you can't. It will keep rearing its ugly head time and again. You need to talk about it."

"Oh really, so you can _pity_ me?" There was as much venom in Sherlock's voice as he could muster.

John gasped, exasperated: "No, you idiot! Because I care about you, I thought you had understood that much!"

Sherlock pulled his hand back and leaned his forehead against his knee: "Fine, call it _sympathy_ then. Doesn't matter, it still means the same."

"What are you talking about?" John was getting louder as his patience ran out.

Sherlock closed his eyes, wishing he was able to simply transfer his thoughts into John's brain, so he would understand.

"I don't want your sympathy," he murmured, exhausted, "I don't want you to think that I am... that."

"Are _what_?"

Sometimes he thought that John was doing it on purpose. "Pathetic, John. A pathetic person who doesn't have any friends except one."

John remained silent for some time. "But I don't think you are," he eventually said. "And frankly, I don't understand why you are thinking so low of me." He sounded hurt. "I am your friend, Sherlock, but I don't want to have to prove it to you. I didn't think I'd need to."

 

Sherlock stared at his hands and realized that they were shaking. He was going to lose John. He was going to lose this one person who had always been loyal to him, no matter what he had done. He had lost people before, yet it had never hurt this much.

But John, wonderful John, did not get up and leave. He did not tell Sherlock to piss off, or threaten to move out. It was not how his mind worked.

"Why is it so important to you whether I think you're pathetic or not?" he asked, wanting to get to the core of the matter.

The shaking got even worse.

Because I want you, Sherlock wanted to say, and I want you to want me, too. I want you to think I'm the most wonderful thing in the world, be all you'll ever need, so that you'll stay with me. I want to wake up in the middle of the night and have you there with me. But not out of pity.

There were tears welling up in his eyes again, and he tried to blink them away, but it was no use. This was inacceptible, he could not start blubbering every time those goddamn _emotions_ took over. He focused on breathing regularly and tried to pull himself together, tried to reign in the disappointment and bereavement he had been feeling ever since the fateful day of his abduction.

"Sherlock," John said quietly, taking both of Sherlock's hands in his. "You're running in circles."

Sherlock looked on their hands and realized that John was right. "I can't stop," he breathed, meeting the other's eyes, "you were right, John. I... I can't make it better." His voice was soft from exhaustion, his expression crestfallen.

John caressed Sherlock's skin with his thumb: "But maybe I can." His gaze was affectionate as he took in the depleted figure in front of him. "If you let me."

Sherlock stared at him for an endless moment, then he closed his eyes, feeling all his remaining walls breaking away. Served him right; he had begun to talk about it after all. Either all or nothing, he thought.

"He wasn't allowed to do that," he whispered, the words aching in his throat. "He didn't have any right to touch me. I didn't want him to, I didn't want... it to be like that."

He pulled his hands away from John and hunched in on himself again, hands holding his shoulders as if needing to keep his body from falling apart. His sleeves rode up his arms, revealing his thin, bruised wrists and making him look very frail.

"I know I brought this on myself," he continued, his voice flat now, "I never had much physical contact with anyone, not beyond the customary social norm anyway. If I had, I'd been... prepared. It would have been less of an impact." John looked as though he was about to protest, but Sherlock could not stop, otherwise he would not have been able to speak on.

"I didn't want anyone to touch me, at all," he said.

Now John absolutely couldn't contain himself any longer: "Oh God," he moaned, remembering _The Incident_. "Sherlock- I'm so sorry. I was drunk, I didn't mean to- I didn't make a conscious decision back then, I really don't remember a thing from that night." He broke off, feeling like a complete arse. "I hope I wasn't rude," he then added, as an afterthought.

"You weren't rude," Sherlock said, after a moment of stunned silence. "You... said rather nice things, actually."

John hardly believed his ears; not because of what he supposedly had said, but because they were having this conversation at all. "I did?"

"Yes."

"Wh-what did I say?"

Sherlock's voice was so low that it was barely audible: "You said that you didn't think you'd ever want to live without me again, and that I was... that I was lovely." He neither looked up nor stopped hugging himself, and John could see that he was still trembling, if at least not shaking anymore.

"My grandma always said drunk people and children are speaking the truth," Sherlock murmured. "And I liked it when you said those things."

 "So... how did I end up sleeping in your bed?" John asked, tentatively.

"You went into the bathroom to brush your teeth, and then you came back in your underwear and simply crawled in with me."

He had at least brushed his teeth. Good.

"And you didn't mind?"

"No. Why would I?" Sherlock frowned.

John was baffled once more: "Did I just miss something? I was under the impression that you don't appreciate that sort of bodily contact- you just said so."

Sherlock murmured something which sounded like "dense".

John raised an eyebrow: "Excuse me?"

Sherlock inhaled deeply: "Come on, John," he said, albeit a little shakily. "From all the hitherto existing evidence, you could have deduced that _you_ are the exception."

The second eyebrow joined the first as John continued to stare at Sherlock.

"That's why I didn't want your pity," Sherlock concluded, feeling absolutely drained. "I liked waking up with you like that, very much so in fact. I would like to repeat that. But I don't want you to... to do it out of pity."

John was silent; when Sherlock finally dared to look at him again, he saw that his flatmate was smiling tentatively. He put one arm around Sherlock's shoulders and gently pulled him close, pressing a kiss into his hair. "I would like nothing better than waking up with you again, like that," he said into Sherlock´s ear, something akin to wonder audible in his voice. "Though I could do without being drunk beforehand."

Sherlock's heart beat wildly at his words; had John really said what he thought he had?

John read the other's expression and smiled at the look of dumbfounded surprise mingled with tentative delight, but he was not going to let Sherlock off a certain hook too easily: "But if you ever lock yourself in your room for four days and let me _beg_ in front of your door again, I _will_ punch you," he said. "Is that understood?"

Sherlock had the decency to blush.

"We can't undo what happened," John eventually said, bringing his other arm up around Sherlock, embracing him, "but it had nothing to do with your... inexperience, Sherlock. Besides, it's not easier when you know what's coming, and it doesn't hurt less no matter how experienced you are."

John couldn't bear the thought of anyone trying to hurt the man in his arms, and he was angrier than ever at the man who had Sherlock abducted. He pressed his cheek against Sherlock's soft curls, carefully emphasizing his next words: "You did nothing wrong," he said, quietly. "Just so you know. It's not your fault."

They stayed like that for a long time while Sherlock contemplated John's words, listening to the other's heartbeat, feeling his pulse against his skin and himself calming down. It had not been easy to say all those things, and he was sure he was not ever going to want to repeat them. But then, he didn't have to- John had listened, and he had understood. It seemed logical what he had said, and Sherlock found himself strangely relieved at the notion that virtually nothing could have prepared him for what had happened. And John had replied in the affirmative...

 

"What are we going to do?" Sherlock asked after a while, his breath ghosting over John's skin.

John reinforced his grip around him; he was not sure what was going to happen or whether the peace which was settling over them was going to last; the last time Sherlock had allowed John to hold him, it had ended in complete withdrawal, after all. Yet it seemed they had weathered the worst, at least for the time being. One step after the other.

"Right now," John said, squeezing Sherlock's shoulder, "we are going to make dinner."

**To Be Continued  
**

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	6. Chapter 6

 

 

**To the Core  
**

 

Part 6

 

 

 

A sense of peace settled around them as they sat at the kitchen table, chopping up vegetables. The experiments and microscope had been moved aside, and the room less resembled a laboratory for once. John had simply handed Sherlock a cutting board, a knife and some peppers with the instruction to cut them into pieces, which Sherlock did while John cut up some tomatoes and onions. They barely talked, but at one point they simultaneously reached for the roll of paper towels which was lying in the middle of the table.

“Sorry,” John said, but Sherlock caught his hand and held it tightly in his for a moment, not looking up. John's fingers felt empty afterwards.

Sherlock watched John as he cooked; he had never been interested in domestic tasks and was not particularly now, but he liked how John moved. His motions were economically and precise, and he seemed completely in control of the situation. He set up a pot of rice, then he melted some butter in a pan, put the onions into it to sweat, added some broth, white wine, a few spices, a bit of cream, a few spoons of creamed coconut and the vegetables. Once he had poured a glass of chick peas into the mix, he turned down the heat and let it stew for a while, clearing the table in the meantime.

They ate in silence, but it was companionable rather than tense. Both of them were tired after the past few days, worn out. John saw how Sherlock was picking at his food, but at least he ate a little bit, which was still better than nothing.

 

After the meal, they cleared away the table and did the dishes, meaning John washed up and Sherlock kept well out of his way.

“You look absolutely knackered,” John said softy, after everything had been put away. He regarded Sherlock with a mixture of affection and concern, the kind only John could convey. 

“I'm fine,” Sherlock muttered, although his eyelids seemed like lead indeed, and he did feel very tired. 

John's expression did not waver as he stepped closer to Sherlock, but his movements were hesitant as he brought up one hand and put it on Sherlock's cheek. The detective leaned into the touch and closed his eyes, inhaling deeply; John's hand was warm and smelled of washing-up liquid and aniseed and John's own scent.

"Would you like to sleep in my bed tonight?" John asked, his voice low. "Together with me, I mean?"

Sherlock could feel his heartbeat again; for a moment, he thought that he really did not deserve John and all the love he was able to give. But apparently, John did not think so, because the look in his eyes was one of true affection and fondness and... appreciation, and now his thumb was stroking over Sherlock's skin ever so gently.

How could he have lived without that? He did not know. But it seemed that Davenport had not succeeded in destroying Sherlock's needs after all, and that was something to be glad about. He opened his eyes and looked at the man who had saved him from falling into an abyss too dark to see how deep it was, and gave a tiny nod.

* * *

 

Upstairs in John's room, Sherlock stood next to the bed a little awkwardly while the doctor quickly changed into an old shirt and pyjama bottoms; it did not seem right to get in on his own, and he had already discarded of his dressing gown. John threw his clothes onto a chair, then he held up the duvet and slipped under it, Sherlock following his example. The bed was still cold, but John opened his arms invitingly, and after a moment's hesitation, the detective scooted closer and felt himself wrapped into John's embrace once more. It was different from sitting on the sofa earlier, and certainly different from the first time it had happened, but definitely pleasant. Sherlock could feel John's heartbeat again, his steady breath in his hair, and felt at home.

John's arms were like a fortress, his scent all around the detective. It even made being unable to think bearable, and Sherlock could close his eyes. He did not need to be strong anymore, nor keep up appearances. He had been cold all day but now John's warmth was all around him, keeping him safe. He would not have expected it to feel so good, or so right for that matter. He felt like he belonged here, in John's arms, where nothing and no one could hurt him. He was also sure that John would never use this against him: he apparently did not think of Sherlock as being weak because of this.

“I love you,” John whispered now, unable to contain himself any longer, “I love you so much.” Sherlock just pressed himself tighter against him: “Please stay with me...,” he murmured. 

John did not know whether he meant now or forever, but he was okay with both. He was not going to leave Sherlock ever again if he could help it.

Gently, he reinforced his embrace, sheltering the other man with his body. Sherlock was so tired that he was trembling, and John hoped he was going to be able to sleep, sleep and rest and forget for a while. He tenderly stroked Sherlock's neck, playing with the soft curls; his lips caressed Sherlock's temple, seeking to calm him further.

Sherlock had nearly dozed off when he was startled awake once more: “John!”

“I'm here, love,” John sought to appease him, talking against Sherlock's skin: “Go back to sleep.” Sherlock made a small sound and burrowed closer into the doctor again; he exhaled, shuddering, then stilled. John rested his cheek against the detective's dark curls and listened to his quiet breathing, which soon evened out again.

It didn't take long for him to fall asleep.

 

John was the first to wake up on the following morning and found that Sherlock and he had rolled away from each other at one point. Sherlock was still fast asleep, lying on his back with his face tilted towards John. He seemed exhausted even in his sleep, but to John, he still looked lovely. 

Very carefully, the doctor shifted his position until he could wind his arm around Sherlock, snuggling up with him with bated breath. Sherlock did not wake, though he pressed himself against the other man, nestling against John as though they had done this a hundred times before. John pressed a kiss against Sherlock's forehead, inhaling the other's scent and marvelling at the fact that he was allowed to do this, to hold Sherlock and be so close. 

He was grateful to whatever deities had granted him this, and he would happily wake up like this every day for the rest of his life. Adrenaline was surging through him even though he was barely awake, just because he had Sherlock-  _Sherlock_ in his arms, when even yesterday he had feared that the man was never going to talk to him again. That fear seemed irrational now that he was lying here, feeling Sherlock's warmth and listening to his quiet breathing, but even if this could be counted as tremendous progress, John was aware that Sherlock probably was far from fine yet. It did not matter right now, though, he would deal with it when it happened. _They_ would.  


Gently, almost timidly, he reached up and stroked Sherlock's cheek with the back of his fingers, marvelling at the softness of the skin. He then moved on to the delicate shell of the ear and from there to the neck, proceeding towards the hairline. He was so lost in thought that he did not notice how Sherlock's breathing changed almost imperceptibly, and then his eyes slowly opened. 

As their gazes met, John paused in his motion, unsure as to how Sherlock would react. Maybe he did not want this after all, maybe he was going to reconsider. Yet all of a sudden, he smiled. He was very obviously still sleepy, but he freed his hand from under the duvet and reached for John as well, curling his fingers into the other's hair, savouring the contact. "You feel good," he murmured.  


"You too," John smiled as well. With his thumb, he gently stroked the soft skin underneath Sherlock's eye, his fingertips applying gentle pressure on his temple. The detective ever so gently leaned into the touch, craving the tenderness. This was new to him, but he already felt bereft at the prospect that it might stop again.

He slowly retraced the lines in John's face with his fingers, a gentle caress. His eyes were following the motion, and there was an almost sad smile on his face."I want to keep this," he murmured so softly it was like a whisper.  


John regarded him fondly: "You _will_ keep this. I can't be anywhere but with you, I thought you had understood that much. I even camped out in the hallway for four days." 

Sherlock's face softened when John's words were sinking in. There was relief evident in the great detective's eyes as well as surprise, and something akin to joy. "John," he said in a very low voice. "Do you know what you're saying." 

"I do," John said, smiling. "Make no mistake about that. So... I hope you do not have any objections about... this." 

The smallest of smiles graced Sherlock's haggard face: "As a matter of fact, I don't," he said, nearly whispering. "I don't quite understand it, but... it feels just right."

"It does," John replied. "You know what?"

"What?"

"I'm glad I stumbled into your bed that night. And even though I wish the whole thing with... Davenport hadn't happened, there's at least one positive consequence."

Sherlock frowned, but he had to acknowledge the logic in this. He leaned towards John once more, seeking his touch, and the doctor gladly complied, wrapping him tightly in his arms, feeling that he had tensed up just at hearing the name. 

"I've got you," John murmured into his hair. "You're all right. _We_ are going to be all right."

Sherlock nodded; he had never had any reason to doubt John's words, after all.

* * *

 

One week later, a 43-year-old man was arrested in his home in Leeds after suspicious materials had been found on his computer hard drive. The man kept protesting his innocence; he had no idea what he had done.

Sherlock received a text message from his brother a little while later, with a link to a brief newspaper article about the case. He read the article, then deleted the text; one less, he thought. If he only could delete Davenport as easily.

"You all right, love?" John asked, who had just come into the kitchen where Sherlock was sitting in front of the microscope. 

Sherlock nodded automatically, then stopped himself, because John would have seen through the lie anyway; he had an uncanny sixth sense when it came to these matters. 

"I'm getting there," he muttered instead. It was probably going to be easier once Davenport had been tried. A thorough search through his house had unearthed enough material to have him convicted of multiple charges even without Mycroft having to interfere.   


John did not say anything, he just leaned over Sherlock's shoulder for a moment: "Can I have a look?"

Sherlock was aware that he only used the microscope as an excuse to provide a distraction and subtle physical closeness, which miraculously always calmed Sherlock down. Therefore he played along, appreciating John's consideration; he knew that Sherlock did not like to be coddled. Tenderness and intimacy were one thing, coddling an entirely different one.   


"Yeah, that's... interesting," John said and straightened up. "What is it?"

"Saliva. From the morgue."

"O-kay." John gave him a smile; he was hardly surprised anymore. "Tea?" he then asked.  


"Yes." Sherlock turned towards the microscope again, but paused: "Thank you."

John understood that Sherlock did not mean the tea, but knew better than to say so. 

"You're welcome," he replied, briefly squeezing Sherlock's shoulder, then went to boil some water. 

Yes, he thought as he put the kettle on, they were all right.

 

 

** The End **

 

As always, thank you for reading; please leave some feedback.

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading.
> 
> The story was originally inspired by something Benedict Cumberbatch said in an interview when he talked about
> 
> the car-jacking he experienced in Africa while filming "To the Ends of the Earth", namely mentioning
> 
> all the things which fortunately didn't happen to him during the incident.
> 
>  
> 
> Please leave some feedback!


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